


Smoke on the Wind

by AideStar



Series: Linked Universe Fics [23]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BUT WITH A TWIST ;), Bittersweet Ending, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Fix-It of Sorts, Future Character Death, Ghosts, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda), Medium Wind, No Dialogue, Sixth Sense, Spirits, Time Travel, Wind-centric angst, foresight, no one actually dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25772431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AideStar/pseuds/AideStar
Summary: Wind would never tell the others his greatest secret.It wasn’t something small, like the details of his first or second adventure. It wasn’t even big, like Time’s markings or Wild’s memory issues, things they kept under lock and key for no one to hear the truth of. No, Wind’s greatest secret wasmassive; a burden he’d been forced to bear on his own the entire time he’d had it.Wind knew when someone was about to die.
Relationships: referenced Time/Malon
Series: Linked Universe Fics [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758937
Comments: 42
Kudos: 247





	Smoke on the Wind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mimiwritesfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimiwritesfic/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Spirit of a Champion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19839568) by [Jeenius_the_Dork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeenius_the_Dork/pseuds/Jeenius_the_Dork). 
  * Inspired by [Turn Back Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24424531) by [sky_squido](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_squido/pseuds/sky_squido). 
  * Inspired by [The Deity’s Grip](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24689857) by [Mimiwritesfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimiwritesfic/pseuds/Mimiwritesfic). 



> This fic came to me and I wrote it in a fit of inspiration in 1.5 hours. And then I didn't edit it for a while lol but it's here now! I've never written a Wind fic but ohhh boy I just had to give him more trauma didn't I? I really like the Medium Wind series by Jeenius_the_Dork and have wanted to explore that AU/headcanon for a while. This is also heavily inspired by Turn Back Time by sky_squido and The Deity's Grip by Mimiwritesfic (love me some time travel and HS Time angst hehe). If you like this fic I HIGHLY recommend you check out those ones! Also this has a happy(?) ending I swear! Despite the heavy themes!  
> If you like my work please leave a comment! I expect to have my kneecap privileges revoked for this fic and cannot wait to hear your screams lol! All the comments left on my work make me sooo happy, they give me the fuel to keep writing <3  
> (Also Mimi, enjoy your retribution hehe!)

Wind would never tell the others his greatest secret.

It wasn’t something small, like the details of his first or second adventure. It wasn’t even big, like Time’s markings or Wild’s memory issues, things they kept under lock and key for no one to hear the truth of. No, Wind’s greatest secret was _massive_ ; a burden he’d been forced to bear on his own the entire time he’d had it.

Wind knew when someone was about to die.

It was a shivering, full body experience. From his spine, ice dripping down, sending a wave of apprehension through him until every hair stood on end. His skin crawled, blood rushed to his neck and left his hands and feet freezing cold. He became too hot and too cold all at once, fear budding in sweat along his temple as foreboding and _dread_ crashed over him in an endless typhoon.

It snuck up on him, sometimes when he least expected it, other times in the heat of battle, ice piercing through his chest like swords through each fallen enemy. With minor beings it was subtle, more intense with the severity and closeness of the death. But with Hylians, especially ones he knew, Wind had an inkling sometimes weeks before disaster struck.

It began with shapes on the edges of his vision, dark and fuzzy and not-there. Then deja-vu, mind fogging over with the disorienting feeling of _familiarity_ in one moment, gone the next. His heartbeat would pick up, he wouldn’t be able to sleep--dreams plagued by dark figures encroaching on _someone, somewhere_ but Wind never knew who or where. All the discomfort, visions, dread would coalesce and mount until it spilled over in frigid shivers and alarming fear.

Wind hadn’t always had this ability, but before his second adventure, before the ghosts became tangible to his skin and visible to his eyes, he still had a sixth sense of sorts to rely on. Back then he’d called it instinct, but now he called it a curse. It never helped him do better on his adventure, never showed him the way, never allowed him to _prevent_ someone’s demise--only forced him to bear witness to it in all its excruciatingly gory detail.

Some spoke of death like a mercy, others like a boon. Wind knew death like an old friend and he _despised_ it with all the rage contained in his tiny body. Some feared death, some prayed for its delay. Wind feared no man, god, or figment of imagination. There was no reason to fear something he couldn’t prevent, there was no reason to pray to something that would never hear or listen. Some ran from death, some hid.

Wind stared death in the eye and spat in its face.

He thrust a magical fucking sword through its head and banished it to a watery grave.

Wind would never tell the others what he knew or what he saw. He would never see Wild’s heartbroken face at the knowledge of the four Champions who followed in his wake. He would never see Time’s thinly veiled horror when he found out his masks weren’t vessels--they were prisons. He’d never get to see the faraway look in Legend’s eyes at the news that a young girl with fiery hair and hibiscus blossom watched over him. No grim acceptance from Four as his shadow lagged along just behind the arc of the sun, or sorrow from Warriors at the fairy that nestled in his scarf to protect him. All these ghosts, and for what? What reason could the Goddess possibly have to tear these loved ones from his friends’ lives so young, and what sick game was She playing at making him see it all.

_You are a bright spirit_ , his Grandmother had told him once. _Brighter than the sun, shining like the North Star on a cloudless night, guiding the way._ He was a navigator, an explorer, a hero by his own making and no one’s bequeathal. Wind had fought for everything he had, fought for his sister, his island, his home, and he’d won. He’d fought other wars in other lands, seen things no child, no _mortal_ should ever be privy to. And when all was said and done, he’d rubbed his eyes, shaken his head with fervor, put himself in bed in a panic and woken to the same ghosts he never should have been saddled with seeing. His Grandmother had believed him--they hadn’t told Ayrll, she didn’t need to know such horrifying things. Grandmother had sat him down and told him, _you are a beacon of hope for so many, including those who’ve passed on._

His adventure wasn’t complete, and now it never would be.

In the months before joining the other Links, Wind had dedicated himself to this new cause. It was difficult to see things that weren’t there, to hear things that made no sound and feel things that left no mark on the world. Not everyone was understanding, accommodating, or kind, but Wind had persisted. He went around his island with a notebook in hand and spoke with each and every ghost he could find; sailors sopping wet and still lost at sea, a woman in a white night dress stained with blood, two children no older than Ayrll with hollowed cheeks. Every day he searched and wrote in his book and _tried_ , but no matter what he did the ghosts he found wouldn’t pass on. He was given instructions by some, to deliver messages to a loved one or search for a missing item. Each time he tried, he found himself in forgotten graveyards, makeshift tombstones of rotting wood and rocks with no name. The ghosts of his island had been there for far longer than he’d been alive, and there was no way to free them as the sands of time buried each scrap of their lives.

And that was if the ghosts were aware enough to hear or see him, most lost in their final moments, stuck within their own minds.

Wind felt the same way sometimes, thoughts swirling into a whirlpool, an endless cycle of failure and regret. Stuck in his own mind, seeing things he shouldn’t see, burdened with a responsibility as unclear and unwarranted as the last two.

Wind had wanted to run away.

He loved his Grandmother, though each day she grew older, frailer, and each moment had prickling dread crawling up his spine in warning. He loved Ayrll, but she didn’t need him anymore, old enough to defend herself and run off with kids her own age at every turn. He loved his home, but every day he felt further from it, judging stares from townsfolk and too-wide smiles and polite conversation as was the bare minimum. He heard their whispers; that he’d gone mad adrift at sea, that his second quest had broken him, that he’d seen something terrible that had shattered his young mind. Pity, sharp like a knife and twisting beneath his ribs with every false laugh and hurried excuse from the kids his own age. Strained greetings from parents before they hid their children behind their backs, as if he were a danger, not a hero, not the reason they were all still alive.

Wind dreamed of the open sea, rocking him to sleep each night. He dreamed of Tetra, wherever she might be, and the freedom of her way of life. He longed for sun on his neck and rope under his hands and any job they’d give him, just to get away.

He’d packed his things, every magical item and weapon and set of clothing. Packed them in his worn adventuring bag and shoved it beneath his bed and cradled his telescope in cold hands. He stared out his window at the night sky each night and _yearned_. There was nothing for him here, not anymore, but he was only just twelve. He didn’t know what his future held, but if it was more pity, more stifling familiarity and judgement and failure, he didn’t want it.

Wind waited until it was late, far too late for anyone to notice him leave. He waited for low tide and snuck out the back door with his things, hiding his footsteps in the wet sand to be washed away come dawn.

Just a mile from home, heart racing with adrenaline and doubt and fear but flying with the promise of freedom, the portal had appeared. Dark and tall, rising from the shallows of the brackish water and reflecting none of the moon’s silvery light, it called to him. Hair standing on end, dread rolling down his spine and tingling over his skin like an old friend, the portal tugged on his spirit.

_Adventure awaits_ , it called, and Wind answered in frantic, splashing steps.

He’d been on this new journey for quite some time now. Wind was never good with time as a concept, with keeping track of days or hours--time made the most sense to him in stars overhead and map in hand. Ever since his second adventure time hadn’t had much meaning, just as life and death muddled and other planes of reality blurred at the edges. Some of his companions were the same, whether it be with time or dreams or dimensions it didn’t much matter. He saw it in the way Marin flickered over Legend’s tense sleeping form, the way Time’s masks ceased their howling when the moon was full overhead, the way Four would mutter to himself, twitch, look over his shoulder and _down_ as if he’d seen something in his shadow. The Goddess was cruel and indiscriminate, and Wind began to realize that perhaps he’d sealed his own fate by forcing her to recognize him as a hero.

Wind’s secret was one of many, a vast collection spanning as far as the Great Sea, and each time one of their group shared a scrap of themselves a mere bucket would empty from its immeasurable size. He felt no shame or guilt in hiding his sight, for there was no reason to burden the others with his cursed knowledge. Not when he knew how futile it would be to shake any of their ghosts free; some of the most aware and powerful he’d ever seen but still stuck behind a pane of glass he could not penetrate. They would not be leaving their charges, and Wind respected that, he wouldn’t intervene.

Wind felt no need to share his sight with the others, but each day his dread built, the deja-vu intensified, the dreams worsened, and Wind felt fear crawl up his throat and nestle into his brain.

How do you tell someone they’re about to die? The thought plagued his mind every day from the realization of his curse. He’d never been able to pinpoint who, where, when the death would occur. Sometimes he’d see _how_ , in flashes of lightning and bright red and echoing screams of agony--but never the important details, only the frightening ones. When he tried to focus on these visions, waking suddenly and with frantic breaths, the intangible unreality of the dreams would have them slipping like mercury through his fingers, heavy and dull until only the dread remained. He’d never been close enough to someone on the brink of death, known or unknown, to trace the thread back to them.

He knew now, and the thought resurfaced with new and breathtaking intensity.

A dream, watery and ethereal. The flash of a sword, piercing deep into a stomach. It wasn’t instant, it was _agonizing_. Blue eye aware through it all as blood pooled around an armored body, alone, afraid, _enraged_. A final curse, a final blessing, and the dream wisped away like smoke on the wind.

He knew that armor, that hair, that _eye_ , burning in its intensity. All at once Wind knew one of his friend’s fates, and he wished he’d never been born.

There was nothing to be done, but he _ached_. Time hadn’t looked any older than he did now and it terrified him. The vision had come early, but how early Wind had no way of knowing. Death snuck up on people, striking when they were down and least expected it, he knew. Death would arrive when none of them were around to stop it, when Time laid on his back in a pool of blood with final vitriol for the Goddess on his pale lips. It would be in battle, but those were frequent, and with each one Wind’s paranoia grew with the dark circles beneath his eyes. The dread built, the sorrow, and with it Wind’s urge to run returned in full force. He’d run before, many times, he’d run from enemies big and small and fears and nightmares and _ghosts_ , but he knew all the same that he could not run from this.

Wind did not fear death for himself.

He feared it for others.

He didn’t know why the dread continued to mount, why it would get stronger some days and fade to nothing on others, a rising tide with the moon. All he knew was that death was coming and it was inevitable, and each day it drew ever closer.

A letter had arrived from Malon one evening, Time’s eyes alight with a boyish joy that belied how young he may truly be. There had been heckling around the fire, calls for him to share with the group, and each one sent ice piercing through Wind’s heart.

It was good news, wonderful news. Malon was pregnant.

While the others celebrated, Wind excused himself into the woods where he curled up beneath a tree, covered his ears, and shut his eyes tight against the mounting horror that threatened to drown him. Time’s lineage was guaranteed.

He was now dispensable.

And death was not a patient thing.

The sun rose red in the East that morning, and with it Wind did too. He stumbled from the clearing after another sleepless night with eyes trained on Time’s back, walked a distance into the woods, and kneeled with palms pressed together.

For the first time ever, Wind prayed.

Wind was not the only hero with secrets locked behind sealed lips. He was not the only one haunted by nightmares, haunted by what they’d seen, haunted by ghosts of those long passed. Wind was not the only one with hidden knowledge up his sleeve and eyes trained firmly on Time that day, as the sun painted the sky in a sickly red haze.

By the time the battle commenced Wind was lightheaded and overwhelmed with the premature weight of grief, mind muddled with dread and fear and loss nearing by the second. He’d been separated from the others, just him and Twilight against a horde of Moblins. It wasn’t a fair fight and it was a losing battle, each second a nail drove into the coffin. Each second ticked down to Time’s last, and Wind felt crushed beneath the weight of his knowledge and responsibility.

How do you tell someone they’re going to die, he’d asked himself, over and over, through the entire night. How do you look someone in the eye and say I know when, where, how you will perish, and I know the final words on your lips will be a curse to the heavens. He’d found the answer in the blood of early morning, head lowered in desperate prayer.

You don’t.

The dread mounted and his legs were numb with cold, his back slick with sweat, the hair on his neck raised as his muscles tightened in apprehension. He couldn’t see Time, he couldn’t hear the wailing masks. Twilight was delivering the final blow to their last Moblin when all at once the dread snapped, melted in a heat of fury, burned bright beneath his skin as terror gave way to rage. The air stilled, as did his heart, and Wind felt as if the very earth beneath his feet came to a crashing halt. There was a tense second where the world froze, his heart stopped mid-beat, Twilight’s sword stuck in amber above the Moblin’s heart.

Distantly, on the edges of his fuzzy awareness, Wind heard the trill of an ocarina playing.

He opened his eyes to the blood red of the dawning sun, wrapped within his bedroll after a restful night of sleep, the ice of dread melted under the warm glow of contentment beneath his skin.

Wind knew he wasn’t the only one with secrets, and he wasn’t one to share someone else’s tales. Legend’s dreams were for his own confidence, Four’s shadow was simply that, Wild’s friends had moved on long ago, and Time’s masks were made of wood and nothing more. Wind did not see their spirits, just as he did not feel rising dread before the death of an enemy and terror so encompassing it kept him awake at night when the other’s deaths drew nearer.

Wind had thought there was no way to prevent the inevitable.

The ocarina that hung on Time’s belt proved otherwise.

For the first time in years, Wind felt as light as his namesake.


End file.
